A barbaric thing, winter’s price
The crude symphony of blood and ice
Through cataract windshields
Behold barren fields
In the grip of evening’s womb
Listen for the hangman’s loom
Forever weaving, weaving
But do not speak of leaving
Towards a melancholy freedom
Liberty to and liberty from
Run towards the sea,
Away from land’s fee—
And know that winter follows
Felt deep in the hollows
Of lung and bone
And in the silent moan
Between each leafless tree
Only winter alone is free